No one knew where the howlpacks came from. The inquisition bristling with blades and silver say they understand this curse. But what is the good of a lie to sooth the masses when you’re living proof that their faith is misplaced. Maritte was angry. It was long past a fury that had a true direction. The scars on her arms had healed, but the scars on her mind had been there before they ever arrived. She spat, hot saliva impacting the ground next to the trail of blood, steaming lightly in the chilly Stensian morning. Force of will had gotten her this far, too much on her mind to stay in the wilds. But even though the full moon was waning, it’s call would bring her back again on baleful droning tolls like honey to her ears. Just like all those nights ago.

The church was confused. They knew the blessing of silver in form and spirit seared at the flesh of the wolf. But the moon in it’s austere brilliance pulled that savagery free, rending man and beast into a horror betwixt. Maritte didn’t see it as they did though. She pulled herself bodily over a branch, her torn and slack clothing catching on burrs and splinters as she approached the outskirts of Pallas.

She knew that it was silver that could destroy her. And that moon, in it’s own insidious way planned the same. She grit her teeth and stared at the wooden walls of the standing barricade. Hopefully they would be enough to protect the next one. She doubted it.

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She looked just like his dreams. Dark red hair, deep skin, a stance between confidant and cautious. She showed up all the time. Sometimes in dresses, sometimes in more practical noble wear. They were powerful, persuasive, and Izek knew it had to mean something. Even before seeing her it was a reflex, the shape of her face and vibrant colors in the darkness of his slumber. Eyes so sharp that he couldn’t shake them in his waking hours. For a few years now he had gotten that cowardly toy-maker to create for him, making sure he knew who was in charge. After the first bruises he started making them better. Correcting the face and the skin and the oh so piercing eyes.

But here she was. He tensed his arm, bristling red under a veneer of plate. A building away. For how long. How long had she been real outside the confines of his thoughts, how long had she been close enough that he could see her and know that he wasn’t simply mad. Well… Time was here that that could change. Time they would meet.
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Nestled betwixt dark mountain and grey forest, the Wizard of Wines vineyard was illuminated with gentle lamp light, a moment of true victory was had. Though morals were debated, none could deny the victory held this day become night in the gentle confines of the winery.

With weariness setting in and progress having been made, the coalition of slayers drifted to their nightly rest.

To the south, past a spewing maelstrom of flame and ash, lies a building. Stone in structure, ancient, and still. A temple carved from the dark mountains of Stensia itself, but stiller than blessed Graf. Usually. For in it’s frigid interior rooms of unlit argent metal there was a shake. For but a seemingly endless moment, something in those blackened chambers stirred once more.

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Again. They take, and take, and take. The so called cultured and all they hold dear. Her hands quivered as she held her wounds, willing them with what little conviction she maintained to close. They feared the mountain so they forgot it to lull themselves to sleep. Her breathing was quick and stained with tears. And still the chance for vengeance was denied them. She wanted to escape, flee the world a hawk upon the wind. But he was there. Calm as ever. The stony face of the cliffs. And as he lit a flame with the will of the world, she knew she would be fine. To depart for now, but in his affirmation… Maybe they could change something. The forest closed in, never betraying the hunters just out of sight.

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Anathema. All of them. Their homes. Their villages. Their carts. Their wine. Brazen and foolhardy they drink to forget the untamed world around them. Plagued by the dark. But they forget where they are. Built on stone. People of untamed wood and broken bone. The sky tumbles, the trees rustle, and the mountain moans his sorrowful regret. And with eyes of thunder and the world at hand, those fearful walls would shake with conviction.

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